Conviction
by A Hitsugaya
Summary: As the sun sets on the Wakandan Civil War, Erik Killmonger reflects on his actions and finds only...Conviction.


Conviction

With every breath I take, I can feel the ritual dagger my cousin had just slipped between my ribs shift a bit. Each breath I take brings me closer to death and yet, all I can do is _think_. All I can think about is what got me here, and ultimately, though I didn't succeed, though I had tasted my dreams on my lips and held the possibility of helping every parentless eight-year-old child in the world—only to watch it slip away—I can't bring myself to regret my actions. Not all of them.

It took _years_.

It took planning, and sacrifice, and blood—both my own and that of others—to get here and it is for that reason that I can't regret what I've done or the people I've killed. No, I can't regret that—not like them. Not like the people who stole and domesticated an entire people and now think we should give a _fuck_ about their tears and their guilt.

I _can't_ regret what I've done, and I _refuse_ to look away from it. I refuse to hide behind flimsy excuses of ignorance or blind rage. My rage was far from blinding—it's what sustained me through the years of loneliness and pain that started with discovering five panther claws in my dead father's chest and ended with similar claws driving a dagger into my own.

My rage—the rage of 12.5 million and the generations they spawned—was clarifying. It was motivating, and as my cousin half drags, half carries me out onto the cliff beneath the panther both my and T'Challa's fathers fought and died emulating, I can't help but believe that my end is fitting.

It is with a bitter-sweet smirk and an incredible amount of effort that I settle myself—or am settled by T'Challa—beneath the vibranium panther which should have watched over both T'Challa _and_ I as we grew up.

"It's beautiful."

The words fall from my lips before I have time to register their presence in my mind.

Oh well, I don't have much longer anyway—might as well speak my mind some more. Never have really censored myself, save for when I had to—when to censor myself was to survive the legacy of criminality that lurked around me with all the deadly ambivalence of the country I kneel dying in.

 _God._

I can't believe I failed.

I failed everyone I was trying to save. I failed my father, my mother, and myself. And worst of all, even though I failed, even though I feel my heart beating slower with every second—even though the skin around the knife throbs slower every second—I also can't help but think about how, though I might not regret my actions, I might have just played into the hands of the very people who stole the beauty I see before me from generations of people.

I told him earlier that I learned from _them_. I used to think that was a good thing, but now, I'm not so sure.

Was I wrong?

I'm not questioning my goals, nah, those were right all along—no matter what this spoiled ass prince may think of me, what _anyone_ may think of me, I was going to help those in need—but was there another way?

As I feel my fingers start to go numb it occurs to me that it doesn't matter. It's all about to be over anyway.

Somehow, that thought does nothing but release all the tension I seem to have been holding for my entire life. I realize now that I'm tired, and though it might be selfish, I'm ready to die. After years of scraping and fighting and killing to get to the top, I'm ready to die.

I'm ready to join my brothers and sisters who were gunned down by people who are supposed to protect them.

I'm ready to join the slaves who killed their children and themselves rather than live a half-life in chains.

I'm ready to join those who rose up and died with a fire in their hearts as they tried to take back the freedom they were born with—a freedom they found once again as they stood at the precipice of death.

I'm ready to join those millions who jumped from the ships.

It is on the heels of that thought that T'Challa, his eyes so big and so goddamn innocent that I can't help but want to deck him before I go, asks me if I want to be healed.

" _Why?_ " I spit. And though I flinch at the effort it takes me to form the one word, my confusion remains. Why would he want to heal me after everything I've done to him? And why the fuck does he think I'd let him heal me only to cage me? Does he think I'm stupid?

I don't realize that part of that line of thought had spewed from my mouth until I see the pain in his eyes. That's curious, I think. _He's_ the one filled with pain at the thought of _my_ death.

Well what about all the deaths Wakanda could have prevented?

What about my father?

It's with that, that any curiosity fades and hot anger courses through my veins, invigorating me one final time.

"Nah" I snarl, "burry me in the ocean with my ancestors who jumped from the ships because they knew that _death_ was better than bondage." Satisfied with my final words, I take the sudden burst of energy, the pride, the pain, the sorrow, the loss, and the wrath of my ancestors, and I force my hands to wrap around the blade in my stomach. As I pull the blade from my body, I watch him flinch and restrain himself from stopping me. ' _Good'_ I think. 'Let it hurt him. Let him see what I had to see, what _millions_ have to see growing up. Let him witness the results of Wakanda's inaction, and let it spur him as it did me.'

The last thing I see as my body hits the ground—which is just as cold and unforgiving as my life had been—is the blazing tongues of the sun reaching out towards me, forming what looks like a burning Panther, it's blue eyes focused on me. _"Rest Child"_ it says.

Then, I know no more.


End file.
